by Gregory Palmerino

D   U   M

P   T    R

U   M   P

by Dan Campion

The CDC says: Ticks! Beware.
It’s time to spritz on DEET.
I spray my socks, my shirt, my hair,
Check arms and legs and feet.
But still, I feel a tickle here,
A micro-tickle there.
These nervous tics will teem, I fear,
Till frost nips at the air.

by Daniel Galef

“A televangelist has asked his followers to donate money so he can buy a $54m private jet.”—The Independent

Jesus wants you to send me money—
Gospel truth, that’s what He said.
Sure, it sounds a little funny,
But you can’t take it with ya when you’re dead.

Pennies from Heaven ain’t nothin’ to Jesus,
And, baby, when He reigns, it pours.
Render unto Caesar what is Caesar’s,
But render unto me what is yours.

The Lord ain’t a loan shark—He spoke in my dreams:
Yeshua-siree! You’ll rake it in, He said,
Not like Old Egypt, with their pyramid schemes
That left poor Pharaoh in the red.

He told me to tell you to honor your mother
He told me to tell you to kill your brother
He told me to tell you to turn your cheek
And he told me the Earth, it will go to the meek

But mostly he wants you to get out your wallets,
You saints and you sinners, innkeepers and harlots,
Gold-girdled seraphs ensconced in effulgence,
Flip open your checkbooks—indulge my indulgence.

If Jesus didn’t want you to give me your dough
He’d show us a sign, like a burning receipt.
Do you see a sign? Oh? What’s that? No?
Then sign! (And make sure those zeroes are neat.)

The Lord ain’t Santa or the Easter Bunny;
Jesus wants you to send me money.
Give me your loaves and your fishes, he said,
And I shall multiply my bread!

Pennies from Heaven ain’t nothin’ to Jesus,
And, baby, when He reigns, it pours.
Render unto Caesar what is Caesar’s,
But render unto me what is yours.

Jesus wants you to send me money—
Gospel truth, that’s what He said.
Sure, it sounds a little funny,
But you can’t take it with ya when you’re dead.

by Mae Scanlan

The news of the day was a lollapalooza:
POTUS is pardoning Dinesh D’Souza,
Then Martha Stewart, Blagojevich too,
Which sends an encouraging signal clear through
To Cohen and Flynn, and some others who face
Considerable time in a monitored space.
Just when you think that things couldn’t get worse,
They quickly do. It’s the Trumpian Curse.

by Edmund Conti

FBI attempting to unshred Michael Cohen shredded documents.—news item

A technological wonder
That makes you wonder whether
What man has put asunder
The Bureau can put together.

by James Hamby

Trump heard his minions chant “Nobel!”
And felt his chest would burst,
But he forgot that winning it
Means doing something first.

—The Washington Post

by Bruce Bennett

It’s an honor to graduate Summa.
But don’t buy a cake that says Cum. A
computer will nix
your inscription. Publix,
it turns out, has a sick sense of huma.

by Dan Campion

Sez NFL, you’ll stand (or else!)
While national anthem’s sung,
Before you tighten up your belts
And get your noggins rung.
We’re owners and commission, see.
Our boys don’t make a fuss.
Free speech? Pure bunk, dead history.
You kneel, you kneel to us.

by Gail White

When polar bears have perished
for lack of habitat,
and rising seas have leveled
our coastal cities flat,

Rep. Dana Rohrabacher,
for one, will feel no guilt,
but with his last breath gurgle
“It’s due to rocks and silt!“

by Chris O’Carroll

Blessed is the babe who’s stacked
And for wolf whistles ne’er hath lacked.
Each boy who comments on her bod
Is fine by me and right with God.

Blessed is the battered wife
Who stays submissive all her life,
Not seeking a divorce to free
Her from her husband’s tyranny.

Blessed is the girl who’s raped
And whose attacker has escaped
Arrest because her pastor said,
“Don’t tell the cops. Forgive instead.”

But Heaven does not smile upon
Those pushy broads who want me gone.

by Dan Campion

“Vote for love.”
—The president

My hearties, what does Love mean now,
From stem to topmast, keel to bow?
We never have to say, “I’m sorry”!
Aye! Three cheers for the Grand Old Party:
Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!

Who must we thank, my shipmates dear?
Why you, Dear Captain! Never fear:
It’s only you we idolize.
You taught us, “Don’t Apologize”!
Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!

How true, although, courageous crew,
I taught what you already knew—
Oh, no, sir! We said “sorry,” once—
Avast! Confession marks a dunce!
Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!

by Mae Scanlan

Kim Jong Oon or Kim Jong Unn?
I propose another one:
Though it sounds a wee bit screwy,
Let’s just call him Kim Jong Phooey.

by Rusty Canyon

Royals: what we’ll never be!
We wake up late, don’t watch TV,
don’t give a damn for history.
No magic and no mystery

pervades the spaces we decree
the bastions of our liberty.
(It’s time for lunch? It won’t be free.)
The traffic stretches to the sea.

by Chris O’Carroll

Electric Kool-Aid acid tested prose—
A pyrotechnic style that zings, bursts, glows,
Word spasms, verbal throes and lava flows—
Dressed up the prim tsk-tsk outlook he chose
In cranky volumes written to expose
The trends he tagged as fast as they arose.

His kandy-kolored tangerine-flake prose
And dude-with-razzmatazz-aplenty clothes
Might sometimes tempt a reader to suppose
That his persona—showboat wiz who knows
More than most others how the story goes—
Is semi-right stuff, semi-desperate pose.

by Bruce Bennett

“Annabelle Lee ’18 Named Student Commencement Speaker”—Wells College memo to faculty

It was just a little while ago
In a college by a lake
When a maiden was picked whom you may know
For a speech, for Heaven’s sake.
I’m sure that speech will be mighty fine,
As such speeches always are,
But honestly, Mr. Poe and I
Think that’s pretty damn bizarre!